Kate Sedley - The Dance of Death

‘That’s it,’ I said to Philip, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily. ‘That’s enough for one day. And where has it got us? We’ve nearly been raped by a bunch of harpies and we’re no nearer tracking down this Robin Gaunt than when we started. And I don’t suppose we ever shall be.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Philip murmured, stroking his chin. In spite of himself, he had become interested in the quest and, despite his total lack of French, had managed to make himself understood far better than I had. He had a way of ingratiating himself with people that gained their confidence, while years of coping and haggling with foreigners in Leadenhall Market had taught him a sign language that seemed to be universally recognized, interspersed as it was with certain mongrel words that bridged the gap between different tongues. He went on, ‘That ale house out towards the Porte Saint-Honour, beyond the old Loover Palace, or whatever they call it — it ain’t a Christian language, that’s for sure: you can’t get your bloody tongue around it — the landlord there mentioned a Robert of Ghent. Seemed to think he might be the man you’re looking for.’

‘Ghent’s in the Low Countries,’ I snapped.

My feet were hurting and I was feeling miserable and depressed. It occurred to me that, within the course of an afternoon, Philip and I had changed places. Now I was the one who was gloomy and pessimistic, while Philip appeared to have overcome his lingering grief, for the time being at least, in the interest of the chase. I recalled the inn he had mentioned, an uninviting place near the Porte Saint-Honoré, dark, dingy, lit only by rushlights and smelling of human sweat and ordure, where strangers were stared at with even more suspicion than was normal in such places. Hostility emanated from every corner and I had felt my scalp tingle with fear, warning me of danger. To my utter astonishment, Philip had seemed thoroughly at ease, but then I remembered that he had grown up in the Southwark stews. This ale house, as he had rightly called it — it was impossible to dignify it with the name of tavern — was home from home to him. The regular customers accepted him instinctively as one of themselves, regardless of the fact that he was English, while I was tolerated simply because I was his companion.

An added bonus had been that the landlord, a hulking fellow with a broken nose and a fiery birthmark that covered practically the whole of one side of his face, spoke a little English, enough at any rate to make communication somewhat less of a hit-and-miss affair than it had been in previous taverns we had visited. Philip’s enquiries, while we drank a rough red wine that depressed my spirits rather than elevated them, elicited the fact that this Robert of Ghent lived somewhere in the warren of streets near the pig market, with its infamous cauldron. But by that time, with the Université still to investigate, I had declined being drawn into a fool’s errand and refused point-blank Philip’s suggestion that we search him out and at least establish that he was not the man we were looking for.

‘These fools wouldn’t know the difference between an Englishman and a Fleming,’ I grumbled, rubbing the aching backs of my legs with both hands. ‘And the sooner we get out of this place, the happier I shall be.’

‘Please yourself.’ Philip had shrugged. ‘You’re probably right.’

But now, leaning against the wall of the brothel while we caught our breath, he seemed to think we might have made a mistake by not pursuing the matter. ‘It is the only lead we’ve got,’ he pointed out.

‘So far,’ I agreed. ‘But not much of one. We’ll have to start again on Monday.’

‘We?’

‘So John says, and he’s in charge. Until this Olivier le Daim makes his appearance, Jules will be otherwise engaged. Now, remember, Philip, I haven’t told you what it is I’m doing for Duke Richard here in Paris. John doesn’t know and he doesn’t want to know, but he’d be upset and more than a little angry if he thought I’d confided in you. And, for the sweet Virgin’s sake, not a word to anyone else. You can imagine that if the queen’s family got wind of this, they’d go straight to the king and heaven alone knows what would happen to us all, including the duke. I’m willing to wager my last groat that Clarence knew about the bastardy story, and look what happened to him.’

Philip regarded me malevolently, and when he spoke, his tone was bitter. ‘You don’t need to remind me to keep me bone-box shut, thank you very much. I know what sort of bloody risk we’re running.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now let’s go back to the Rue de la Barillerie. ‘I’ve had enough for one day. And the episode in this place — ’ I jerked a thumb over my shoulder — ‘was the final straw.’

The following day, Sunday, was quiet. Everyone seemed out of sorts and disinclined for conversation. We all seemed to be nursing a private grievance, not openly stated, but nonetheless potent for all that. From the few words he did let fall, it was obvious that John was angry I had flouted his suggestion that I take Jules with me while I could, particularly as he had taken the trouble to visit the Coq d’Or to apprise the latter of my imminent arrival.

‘You and Philip were so long farting around before you left the house I was able to slip out ahead of you in order to warn Jules you were coming. And then you didn’t show up.’

I apologized and made some feeble excuse, which he accepted grudgingly, but remained taciturn for the rest of the day.

Philip kept out of my way, whether deliberately or by chance I couldn’t determine, but he remained in the kitchen with Marthe, doing odd jobs for her and easing the burden of looking after four people single-handed. Or, at least, so Eloise informed me, having had some conversation with the housekeeper when she visited the kitchen after breakfast.

As for Eloise herself, she was as generally uncommunicative as the others, and for this a blazing quarrel the previous night was responsible. She had been short with me all evening and, when we finally retired to our bedchamber, had reproached me in no uncertain terms for not accompanying her to the Rue de la Tissanderie.

‘Jane and Master Armiger thought it most strange that I should go alone, and so, I’m sure, did Will Lackpenny.’

Tired, worried, depressed, I had rounded on her with a viciousness I regretted almost at once. Seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her violently, I hissed, ‘For Jesu’s sake, get it into your stupid little head that I am not really your husband, and stop treating me as though you were my wife! This is a game we’re playing, and what’s more, I’ll tell you this: if we were man and wife and you spoke to me like that, I’d take my belt to you and leather you senseless.’ And with that, I had flung her away from me so that she went sprawling across the bed.

She lay perfectly still for a moment, and, to my horror, I saw that she was crying silently, the tears streaming down her face. I was immediately contrite, appalled by my behaviour, and had sat down beside her, trying to soothe her, trying to explain that I hadn’t meant a word I’d said. I had expected recriminations, even a hail of blows, but had been unprepared for the quiet dignity with which she had repelled my efforts at reconciliation and finished preparing for bed. It had made me feel an even bigger bully boy than I did already, and although I recognized that this was her intention, I nevertheless knew that the way I had behaved would take a lot of forgiving.

So the morning’s coldness was hardly a surprise and I made no attempt at atonement. I reasoned the less said, the better, and that her own sense of justice would eventually lead her to realize that, however badly I might have acted, she herself had not been blameless. Her tirade against me had been both undeserved and foolish.